Of Vatican Cameos and UMQRA
by Mariam Shabti
Summary: Just adding to the ever-growing slough of one-shot collections. Because (as I once heard it so aptly put) a bag of chocolates is easier to tackle than a pound of fudge.
1. Deduction of the Justice of the Peace

**Note: I can't be the only one who wondered what Sherlock could possibly have said in the court scene in TRF to get slammed in the gaol. Then I realized that he'd been systematically reading all the jury members, and wondered if he'd mouthed off at the judge and deduced ****_him_****. So I wrote this little one-shot of Sherlock reading the Justice of the Peace. Thought it would be fun, and I hope you like it!**

"Can you possibly go five minutes without showing off?" the judge bellowed.

Sherlock turned to look out at the crowd assembled at the back of the room, at John shaking his head, at Moriarty standing there looking like a smug little toad. He cocked his head to one side and took a deep, preparatory breath.

"Your Honor," he said with a wry smirk, "I'm very sorry for your loss."

The judge's face went slightly pink. "What the bloody – "

"No need for profanity, Your Honor. It's quite simple, actually, this conclusion I've come to. You've been recently divorced by your wife."

The judge blustered and turned very red. Sherlock cut him off with a level look.

"Honestly," he sighed, "the conclusion wasn't difficult to come to. You are typically a very neat man, if the state of your collar above your robe is anything to judge off of – it's the collar of a rather new shirt, well laundered, starched conscientiously – so the fact that you are not neatly shaved betrays the fact that you were in a hurry this morning. A sign of sleeping in, also of a woman in the house being absent and therefore unable to inform you that the right side of your face is haphazardly shorn. The left side being neatly trimmed, I should say you were halfway through shaving when you saw the time and hurried up.

"You slept in because you were out late last night – the bloodshot state of your eyes and the broken capillaries in your nose show that you are a regular drinker, and therefore must have consoled yourself with a heavy consumption of alcohol.

"Your ring is gone – yes, I've noted this, though there is no sign of a ring being previously on the finger, you have been absentmindedly running your thumb over it, like a schoolboy feeling the hole with his tongue where a tooth previously resided. You are unaccustomed to it being gone – therefore you wore it up until yesterday or the day before. You were faithful to your wife, loved her even, and always wore your wedding band until you lost the battle to keep your wife. Yes, _she_ left _you,_ otherwise why would you wear the ring so long?"

Sherlock drew another deep breath. He gave his best, winning smile. "How _is_ the headache, Your Honor? The hangover must be dreadful."

The Justice of the Peace's face had grown a dreadful shade of puce. His jowls quivered with agitation. "Out!" He gestured frantically with his left hand – which _was_ ringless – towards the doors. "Take him out!"

The room was in uproar. Moriarty was grinning as though Christmas had come early. Two officers standing near the witness booth roughly grabbed Sherlock by the upper arms and began to usher him away – the last thing Sherlock saw before being rudely shoved out of the courtroom was John, his face in his hands.

His blogger's ears were very, very pink.

**Thanks for reading, guys! Please review! It means a lot.**


	2. The Elephant in the Room

**A/N. Even though I'm a little behind on the subject of John's new facial attire, I had to write my own view of it. _I _think it rather dashing, honestly. And if any of you get the reference in this story, I'll love you forever.**

"John."

John took a slow, deliberate sip of tea.

"John."

John put his teacup down and licked his upper lip.

"John."

John finally looked across the table at Sherlock and cocked his head to the side. "I'm not having this discussion again."

A pleading look crossed Sherlock's face, but quickly disappeared. "How long did it take for you to grow that moustache?"

John's lip twitched, as though suddenly aware of the bristly hair sprouting from it. "A couple of days."

Sherlock gave a derisive sniff, then wilted slightly. He fingered a bit of potato on the plate in front of him. Suddenly, as if it were an unpleasant thing that must be done as quickly as possible, he popped it in his mouth.

"Mmmmglthoogbridih," he mumbled.

John blinked. "Er, sorry, what?"

"Igdihildihideregoon."

John leaned forward. "Come again?"

Sherlock tucked his chin down slightly into his scarf. "Wish _I_ could grow one."

John hesitated, then leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. "That's what I thought."

They sat in silence for a few moments, and then...

"Hmmph," Sherlock said.


	3. Breadknife

"**A/N: Just a little silly. Just a little crack. Just a little stupid. But enjoy!**

"Sherlock!

There came only a grunt in reply, and John sighed. "Sherlock, please. Where's the breadknife?"

A huff of annoyance, and a creaking of springs. He was curled on the sofa, then. "John, _why_ would _I_ know?"

John rummaged about the piles of mystery stuff on the counters with one hand, the other holding a fresh loaf of bread high in the air. He didn't want the fumes from Sherlock's abandoned "experiments" contaminating the beauteous thing Mrs. Hudson had just given him.

"Well," he growled, "You _are_ a bloody consulting detective. Can't you just deduce where it is by the spot on the wall that looks like a janitor mopping the floor with an upside down troll?"

A dignified silence prevailed for a moment or so, and then...

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

"You looked for the spot, didn't you?"

Sherlock sniffed. "It looks like an eagle trying to carry off a fridge, you idiot."

"But," John said derisively as he shoved a rotting human ear to the side, "Did it tell you where the breadknife was?"

Another silence, and then more creaking, and then Sherlock had swept into the kitchen looking for all the world like an insulted prima donna. "I _refuse_ to put my prodigious skill to something as mundane as divining the current residence of a _breadknife_, John."

The army doctor turned, bread in hand. He took in the detective, who stood merely two feet away. He was resplendent in his blue dressing gown over an inside out t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms, his ice-white eyes flashing frozen fire. His cheekbones reflected the morning light from the window as though he'd sharpened and polished them. John thought waspishly that maybe he _had_.

Suddenly he came to a decision, and abruptly brought down Mrs. Hudson's beautiful bread on Sherlock's left cheek. He grinned at the shock on the detective's face before setting the loaf on the cutting board and watching as it separated into perfectly sliced pieces, like a freshly thwacked chocolate orange.

"Irrelevant," John snorted.

Sherlock could only stare at the bread.

It had been cut upon his own cheekbone.


	4. Shopping

**A/N: Just a short drabble about John shopping. Because, honestly, can you imagine Sherlock shopping for himself?**

John sighed as he rifled through the shirts on the rack. Green? _No, he hates green._ Stripes? Although the thought of _him_ in stripes tickled some hidden funnybone deep within him, John decided against it. He took one out and held it up, appraising it with a critical eye. Perhaps.

But did Sherlock _really_ need another purple button-down?

John reflected upon his past memories of Sherlock in the purple shirt he already owned. The only ones he could summon were the ones with the detective sitting at a microscope, the buttons straining across his chest.

He sniggered. The girls always went crazy when Sherlock donned the purple shirt. The Purple Shirt of Sex, they'd dubbed it reverentially.

John had to admit he'd been scheming for a while, when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Not concerning _himself_, no no. But he'd find a way to force Sherlock into the dating game one way or another. Even if it meant buying him purposefully too-small shirts.

He'd been doing all the shopping for a while now. Mrs. Hudson assumed – as she always did – that he was just doing his _wifely_ _duties_. But honestly, as straight as John was, he just couldn't allow Sherlock to run his clothes to rags. The detective would rather go naked than worry about buying himself anything new, and he wore through clothes surprisingly fast.

But this wasn't just about doing his _wifely_ _duties_. This was about finding Sherlock a girlfriend. And a new purple shirt might do just that.

And so, with a decisive nod, John placed the lavender shirt next to the milk and jam in his cart.

**A/N: Thanks for reading, guys! Oh, and you see that little box down there? Yes, that one. That's for you to write things in. I suggest you do it. That would make me quite happy. Plus you can suggest silly, fluffy, crack-like things for me to write for you. ****_Danke sehr!_**


	5. Crimescene Intruder Song

**A/N: Just a short bit of nonsense my brothers and I came up with while we were high on lack of sleep and chocolate. Forgive me! Based on the original Bed Intruder song - go look it up on YouTube if you haven't heard it yet. It's hysterical.**

He's bustin' in yo crimescenes,

Bringing yo IQ down,

Tryin' ta sass ya,

So go hide yo skull -

Hide yo drugs -

Hide yo skull -

Hide yo drugs -

...and hide Jawn Watson, cuz he sassin' evr'ybody up in here.

Anderson, please shut yo mouth

We lookin' fo clues!

We gon' find clues

We gon' find clues

So you can run and tell that

Run and tell that

Run and tell that

Homeboy

Home

Home

Homeboy!

***insert sassy gif of Martin Freeman here***


	6. Pillow

**A/N: I've always wondered what this scene would be like with our lovely BBC Sherlock peeps, and so here I've written it out for you. Enjoy!**

When Dr John Watson got back from the surgery he was met by the sound of repetitive, ominous thuds. Mrs Hudson was fidgeting at the bottom of the stairs, picking at her nails. "It's been going on for about five minutes, now," she said tremulously, "and at first I thought it was him just doing another of his experiments. Didn't want to interrupt, but now...well, it _does_ sound dreadful, doesn't it?"

John nodded. "It's quite alright, you were fine not checking on him. You're not his housekeeper, and definitely not his mother. It's his own fault if he can't look after himself, the bloody infant."

She nodded, looking almost tearful, and shuffled back into her own flat. John thought he heard her muttering something about a good cuppa and a sit-down with fifty shades of something or other, but he instantly put it from his mind.

He'd left his pistol in his desk drawer, unfortunately, so he contented himself with firmly grasping an umbrella left in the hall and starting up the stairs with it brandished in front of him like some sort of rapier. He wasn't sure what could be going on up there, but with Sherlock as a flatmate he could be sure that it was something out of the ordinary and he wanted to be prepared. Could be another damned member of some terrorist cell...or the CIA again, for God's sake.

When he entered the flat, the front room was empty. In fact, it was rather neat, which surprised him since he'd left it in disarray. The thought of Sherlock was laughable, so John made a mental note to thank Mrs Hudson once he got back downstairs in one piece.

A particularly loud thump resonated through the floor, making John jump. _The bedroom. Sherlock Holmes, you bloody idiot. Surely you haven't got somebody over?!_

He lowered the umbrella and cleared his throat nervously, hoping to be heard. Another thump sounded, so John raised his voice. "Hello? Sherlock, have you got company?"

"No, you incompetent boor."

"Then what's going on?"

There was a long, pregnant silence, and then another loud thump.

John shook his head. "Honestly, what's wrong?!"

"Just come in!"

"Your bedroom?!"

John had his ear pressed to the wood of Sherlock's door by now, and caught a long, exasperated sigh. "Yes. My bedroom. I could actually use your assistance, believe it or not."

John's stomach dropped. Unbidden, his mind began replaying all the lines he'd heard before – "A candle for you and your date." "Is yours a snorer?" "_My_ husband was just the same."

This was _not_ happening. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Just. No.

"JOHN."

He jumped and shook his head. "Coming..."

He opened the door and sort of shuffled in, not sure what he was going to see. The scene before him, however, exceeded all expectations.

"Don't say a word," Sherlock grumbled.

John roughly rubbed his face with both hands. This was more than he could handle, especially at the end of an already long, taxing day.

Sherlock Holmes was handcuffed to his bed, completely naked, covered only by a conveniently placed Union Jack throw-pillow. His hair was ruffled and in his eyes, his face was covered with what looked like lipstick, and his body was slick with sweat from struggling. His left ankle looked bruised from banging it against the foot of his bed.

"Mrs Hudson knew better than to come up, didn't she?" he snarled.

John nodded, trying not to laugh.

Sherlock grimaced. "Stop it. It's bad enough being trapped like this without you thinking it's some huge joke."

John just shook his head, entire body shaking with the effort of containing the impending peals of laughter. Finally, collecting himself enough to look Sherlock in the eye without crumpling in a hysterical ball on the floor, he stammered, "Irene Adler, then? Is she back?"

Sherlock gave him the special yes-of-course-I-knew-you-knew-that-I-knew-and-oh-y ou're-really-not-as-daft-as-you-look smirk. "Obviously."

"And has she..." – _snort – _"_ravished _you?"

The consulting detective drew himself up slightly. "Ravished? _Honestly_, John. There was no intercourse involved."

"But you're...erm...naked."

"Yes."

John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, _please_. She returned for her stripped mobile. I resisted. She drugged me. I awoke in this position, completely unharmed except for what feels like lipstick upon my visage."

"And that counts as bodily harm?"

Sherlock blinked. "Well, yes."

John sighed. "What do you want _me_ to do then?"

"Ah, yes. About that. You see, beneath this pillow lies the secret to my release – "

But John was already out the door, yelling something about _not being his bloody date._

**A/N: Honestly, I had way too much fun with this! I wish something like this will happen in series three, but I have a feeling Mofftiss wouldn't subject their precious Sherlock to such an obvious comic crutch. Still, the thought of it was a hysterical one. Please review if you liked it! I'd love to hear what you think.**


	7. In The Morgue

"What do you need?" Molly gasped for the third time.

He stepped close. Deliciously close. She could taste the warmth of him, smell the soap he'd used that morning. _No, no, don't think that, it's not romantic at all, stop it, you're being silly..._

What do you need? The question still hung in the air. His eyes were gazing into her own, almost as though...

"You,"he said.

_You. I need you._

She looked down. Her pulse was thudding in her ears, and the floor seemed to tilt a little. Tears were coming, sharp, pricking, hot –

"Molly, what's wrong?"

Sherlock's voice, low and stirring and chocolate brown, seemed full of concern somehow. The only thought she could process was that he was never concerned for anyone. Maybe John, maybe Mrs Hudson, but never her, Molly.

A touch, soft as a petal, on her hand. Another where her neck met her shoulder.

"Molly," he sighed, "Oh Molly, how horrible I've been to you."

She could only shake her head and stare blearily at his red-stitched buttonhole.

"I'm...sorry. For playing with your feelings. I...um...I suppose all those times I complimented your hair or lipstick...it was so you'd do something for me."

_Was he stuttering? Really? This must be some sort of act. Yes, that must be it. He needs something enormous...something dangerous. He's buttering me up like there's no tomorrow, so it must be big – _

She moved her hand away from his and used it to wipe under her eyes. She risked glancing up at his face. Oh, goodness, he was standing awfully close...

The look of concern on his face changed to one of shock, realisation, grief.

"You think I'm just here to beg an enormous favour of you. That I'm only being so kind – " he violently snatched up her trembling hand and pressed it to his lips – "so that you shall assist me, however ponderous the task."

She drew in a shuddering breath. "Aren't you?"

His eyes softened. "Molly," he murmured against her hand.

Her breath caught.

"Molly."

Her upper lip grew sweaty.

"Oh, my sweet, kind Molly. I would destroy you."

She blinked. "What?"

"You're too good." He ran her hand from his lips to his cheekbone and back. "And I'm...a bit not good. I would be merciless. I would be cruel. And your sweet soul would break."

Her heart felt swollen. So did her eyes.

"I work in a mortuary," she said. She was proud of the strength in her voice. "I deal with death every day. It's my job. I've had children, coworkers and friends come under my knife. I deal with _you_ every day too. Coming in here with your dramatic coat and your collar and your cheekbones and your glorious voice that vibrates through the floor. I have to deal with loving you, seeing you every waking moment, all the while knowing that you think nothing of me. You take me for granted._ I do not count_. And sure, I'll do anything for you. Because that's what people _do_ when they love someone. It doesn't matter if they're loved back. Sure, I have a pretty hard time of it. But believe me, it'd be much better, much happier, knowing that you loved me just a little, than to go on the way I have been. Ignored. Despised."

She took a deep breath, surprised at herself. She hadn't said so much to Sherlock in...well, ever, really.

He was holding her hand so tightly. His long fingers traced the skin on her wrist. She almost believed he loved her then, maybe just a teensy bit – but she refused to be fooled. Not again. Especially not by him.

"It's alright," she said, shaking herself slightly. She took her hand away and stepped back.

Out of intimacy.

Into indifference.

"Mr Holmes," she said calmly, professionally, "how can I help you?"

The vulnerability he'd displayed only moments before was suddenly smothered in a mask of calculating impassivity. This was the Sherlock she knew – cold, emotionless, machine-like. It led her to wonder...which was the act, and which was real?

Sherlock Holmes stood up straight, his hand clasped behind his back. His eyes were frigid and dead when he said in a flat monotone, "I need you to kill me."


End file.
